Arthur and Ludwig's Average Adventure
by question the corpus
Summary: Taking a leisurely trip around the European Union sounds almost peaceful. It's just not usually done with an old enemy who's now an unpredictable friend. [Nationverse; based on current events. Potentially shippy vibes.] [England & Germany-centric.]
1. Trading Operations

**AN: **I've wanted to write something like this for a while, a sort of 'road trip' fic between the European Union's most pro-EU country (Germany) and one of its least (the UK, specifically the English). All political and historical information was correct at the time of writing, though despite smatterings of that, it's mostly just written for fun – so I hope you enjoy!

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><p><strong>Arthur and Ludwig's Average Adventure<strong>

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><p><strong>I: Trading Operations<strong>

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><p>"Would you like to buy some <em>Europop<em>?"

That is not a question Germany often enjoys being asked. It's an especially non-enjoyable question when it's being posed by none other than England, who is not known for enthusiasm regarding relevant topics like Eurovision.

Still, ignoring his neighbour-by-sea would be rude, Germany supposes, so he stops mid-step and glances back over his shoulder. They're on the steps to the Louise Weiss Building – nothing less than the European Union's parliament, of course – and though England usually can't wait to get _out_ of such a place after a conference, he's apparently in the mood for making small talk today.

Germany frowns. He purses his lips. He only utters, "Excuse me?"

"Europop." Sure enough, England lifts a CD with a cover boasting bright neon artwork – an anomaly in his current image, considering the sharp navy suit he's wearing in accordance with political procedure. The alphabet spelling out said CD's title is Nordic: Swedish, perhaps, or Norwegian. Germany doesn't have time to check before England begins shaking it, adding, "Sweden gave it to me."

Ah. Swedish, then.

"He _gave_ it to you?"

"Yes." England crinkles his nose, and he begins walking to join Germany on the step he's currently occupying. "I _do_ enjoy a bit of ABBA – but I wish he'd stop slipping me these things whenever he's adamant he's discovered the next big thing. I think it's giving Austria ideas."

"So it was a gift," Germany states, mostly to process the concept. "It was a gift, and you expect me to _buy_ it from you."

England, in a rare display of mirth, cracks a grin. "Merely a joke, old chap, but I'll gladly accept your grubby euros if you're offering. I might as well get _something_ for showing up to another whimsically unproductive meeting."

Then he begins walking again, sliding the disc somewhere into the depths of his jacket. There's something beckoning in England's tone that tells Germany he's expected to follow – and, truth be told, he never could deny his curiosity when England has something to discuss. It's the reason why he's put up with him for this long.

While England walks, he clasps his hands over the small of his back, staring silently ahead despite the company he's gained. Germany expects something to be said, of course, but when England only stays quiet, he suspects he's expected to make a stab at it.

"Good weather today," he manages.

Well. England loves talking about the weather.

The novelty of atmospheric conditions has apparently lost its sheen today, nevertheless, because Germany receives a snort of derision for his troubles. "Good weather for _France_, I suppose, yes. Look! All those lingering rainclouds he couldn't be bothered to clear for us."

"The paper said it's not expected to rain until the evening."

"You've done your research. Staying here the day, are you?"

"No." Somewhat redundantly, Germany shakes his head. "I was intending to take the train home after the meeting, provided France did not wish to discuss something. And he doesn't."

Nothing new there, then.

Still, England finally addresses him at that, tipping his head while they walk to regard Germany side-on. "You _were intending_ to leave? Or still are?"

"I'm not sure. You don't usually discuss new additions to your music collection with me unless you want something."

England's grin resurfaces, only a brief flash – but there's something fundamentally malicious to it that makes Germany feel both uneasy and exasperated.

"How suspicious you are of me."

"I am merely making honest observations."

Still, Germany feels the need to fall silent before he oversteps a boundary... and not just because of his inherent politeness. He has this odd sense of duality, whenever he's around England: he is the cantankerous child-man who throws fits over the concept of being called _European_, but he's also a battlefield rival, in years gone by. Germany spent his youth attempting to outdo the Anglo-Saxons, to intimidate the great British Empire that had been lounging about across the sea – borne from respect, from jealousy, from a vernal sense of competition.

As ridiculous as England can be, Germany knows exactly what he's capable of.

"At ease, Hagrid," England bids, as though detecting Germany's respect and deciding to promptly disprove it. He raises one flat hand, along with an eyebrow. "I have faith you can guess what I wanted you for. You're not as stupid as you look, after all."

"You wouldn't approach me _willingly_." Coming to a stop abruptly beneath the Spanish flagpole, Germany decides his best bet involves simply staring at the nuisance until it goes away – if only staring at England really _did_ dissipate him. Instead, it merely seems to assure him Germany is incredibly interested in whatever claptrap he's been told to say, so Germany curtly addresses the keen look with, "Who _sent_ you?"

"My boss did; who else?" England pats his chest rather proudly, a smile creeping onto his lips as he goes on, "Told me I should be collecting viewpoints in our darling little trade bloc before I dismiss the whole lot as codswallop. You seemed like the best place to start – because I know how much you love telling me I shouldn't stop _bailing out_ the whole continent."

Germany's jaw sets. "It is not your effort alone that aids our indebted members."

"Never suggested otherwise, Jerry, but it certainly isn't yours."

England's smile now speaks of insidious things once again, so Germany briskly decides to change his tune. Diplomacy is a game the eagle has to master once its wings have been clipped, after all – he's had enough time to learn it.

"If you wish to hear your fellow Europeans tell you why you should remain within the Union, then by all means do so... or perhaps this is an endeavour into feeding your ego, but the end result will be the same. As for me, I don't think I can elaborate any further on the multiple reasons why your exit would be—" And then Germany thinks for a moment, searching for the right word. How desperately he wants to say 'foolish'. "—_Unfortunate_."

"Reasons why I'm the thorn in your side, you mean," England retorts. "I'd go so far as to say your poor, soft stomach is all bruised inside from holding back the bellowing, but I'm actually here to make you an offer."

Oh. That doesn't happen often, and Germany is so surprised, in fact, that he even deigns to lift an eyebrow.

(Only a fraction. Wouldn't want to go overboard.)

"You," England says, pointing where appropriate, "should accompany me, because I trust you'd like to catch up on your little Union minions – and you might just prevent me from being decked in the jaw a few times."

"I do not see them as _minions_–"

"All right; playthings, then. Doesn't matter to me what label you give it, because it's still an arrangement that benefits the both of us, isn't it? In the loosest sense of the word."

"I," Germany begins, then stops.

It's not often the great Federation finds himself lost for words, but it isn't that he's unsure what he thinks about such a suggestion. He can imagine various things that sound far more entertaining than embarking on a continental trip with England, of all people: pulling teeth, attending a musical, euthanising Aster... No, no; that one doesn't bear thinking about.

"Are you in or out?" England demands, tapping his wrist like there's a watch there. "My first train departs soon and I wouldn't want to miss it... Ah." He seems to notice Germany's general scent of reluctance, if the way he tips his head has any meaning. "Believe me, Kraut, there's nothing _I_ want to do less, either, but it's not just _my_ boss who's been meddling."

Germany frowns the slightest frown, hardly impressed by the prospect _his_ bosses orchestrated this whole sorry affair. He supposes it's flattering they would trust him to serve as England's minder – because he knows himself to indeed be perfectly capable – but that doesn't mean he's appreciative.

Surely his government would tell him beforehand that they expected him to do something like this?

Maybe not.

"Well?" England demands, in his reserved little way. There is an urgency to his gaze that isn't in his tone, but Germany sees enough of himself in the Briton to know that patience won't last long. "You brought a suitcase for the conference, didn't you?"

"No. I didn't intend to stay."

"_Well_ – that's no bother. We're unfortunately in France, so it shouldn't be long before we find our way back to your place; you can pack for the rest of the trip then, can't you?"

Germany's frown graduates into a grimace. "I – yes. _But_–"

"Excellent." England slowly resumes moving again before Germany can disagree, protestation dying upon his lips. "If we want to absolve ourselves of responsibility before anything goes to the electorate, you'd be wisest to come with me. Wouldn't want to be accused of not doing enough to keep me sweet, would you?"

Not doing enough! Germany rather thinks he's done too _much_, the amount of time and energy he's spent on pacifying the tantrums of someone purporting to be an antiquated gentleman – not that England's knack for troublemaking would be obvious now. Decked out in a smart suit and sensible shoes, England is the very figure of modern elegance, wandering off towards the crowd as though metropolitan Strasbourg was made for him.

Germany dons his neutral expression – suppression is his eternal friend – and begins to follow behind. He didn't envision himself agreeing to a break in his routine like this when he left the house this morning, diplomacy aside, and he's not even quite sure where he's agreed to go.

But he's sure of one thing, and that thing is, he's not _happy_ about it.

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><p><strong>-tbc-<strong>

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><p><strong>Notes<strong>:

+Though Britain was welcoming to Germany's creation (France and Russia opposed it), Germany still saw Britain as its rival. This accelerated under Wilhelm II, who took pride in his English heritage, but also implemented policy to "show that Germany is as well born as Britain". A severe case of "notice me, senpai". Anglo-German relations to this day contain it: English eurosceptics irritate Germany, but German politicians have been vocal about wanting the UK to remain in the EU.

+_Jerry_: British military slang for WWII German soldiers.


	2. Economy Class

**II: Economy Class**

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><p>Germany checks his watch as he takes a seat on a bench, then double-checks by glancing up at a luminescent clock suspended above the seating area. The Strasbourg station is a thing of beauty: stone women watch him reproachfully beneath the high, domed roof, sunlight splintered into colours through its glass.<p>

_He_ built this. Or at least, his people did, because this city was once German, a gift from his brother – that was a long time ago.

England is running late. Not for the train: he has around fifteen minutes or so before it's scheduled to arrive, but he said he'd be back for twenty. This slight deviation from schedule has left Germany uncomfortable, though he is at least above squirming in public.

Their train is to Frankfurt, because Germany acquired a house there recently that he's in the process of renovating. It's an old building, with a worryingly rickety staircase, but Germany has faith in it and it's nice to have a hobby, to restore relics of his past. He left enough of his things there to at least fill a suitcase – a trip to Berlin would take too long.

That's provided Prussia hasn't moved anything about, of course. He was going to spend the day repainting its kitchen (not that Germany _asked_ him to), and Germany dreads to think what state it'll be in once his devious brother is finished.

He doesn't have to think for very long: England, appearing from precisely nowhere, collapses onto the bench beside Germany with a theatrical sigh, sleek black suitcase resting against his leg. He checks his own watch, at first frowning – then grinning when he sees he wasn't _entirely_ tardy.

"New record, I'd say," he says, red with the flush of running. The breathless hitch to his speech is therefore unsurprising. "Never can remember my way around France's ridiculous streets, and I certainly wouldn't want to wait for the evening train."

"Why not hire a taxi?"

"And contribute to his _economy_? You insult me, sir."

Germany grimaces, an art he's perfected. He hands England a ticket, waiting for it to be pocketed before speaking again.

"Do you have a route in mind?"

England glances up at him, deadpan. "You know, I was rather hoping we could just take the railway."

"Amusing," Germany says, flatly enough to indicate he is most certainly not amused. "Where do you wish to _go_, after Frankfurt?"

"I have a vague plan. Perhaps we should stay there for the evening, if you wouldn't mind it." England adjusts his sleeve-cuff, entirely nonchalant about inviting himself over. "I intend to visit Brussels next, which is quite a journey... and it might be of some entertainment to catch up with your brother again."

Germany can't remember _telling_ England about Prussia's bout of house-sitting, so he opens his mouth to speak – but England cuts him off.

"It's on his Twitter, old chap. He's _liveblogging_ the experience of renovating some house or other."

Germany's jaw grinds. "That is _my_ house."

"Oh." England drums his fingertips against the top of his suitcase. "Well – I never said he's doing a terrible job."

"It is implied by the fact it's my _brother_."

England huffs a chuckle at that, though Germany struggles to see why it was funny. To him, it's a valid concern, especially now Prussia lives in a perpetual state of boredom unless he's causing trouble for someone else.

"I should think that's the least of your worries. Have you told him you're going to be otherwise occupied for a while?"

"Yes," Germany replies, tacking on a nod for good measure. "But I suppose I can affirm the details with him when I see him."

"What _details_?" says England, with something of an aristocratic scoff. "I already told you it's a _vague_ plan. I might abandon the whole endeavour halfway through in favour of an impromptu holiday in Cornwall."

"You have to see it through." Germany turns his head, just enough to regard his companion. "I thought this was an exercise our authorities agreed upon."

"In case you haven't noticed," England says, popping a mint into his mouth, "the whole European experiment is something I'm wary of. Being lectured to by supporters isn't exactly an appealing prospect, and to make everything that much worse, I'm going with the company of Europe's bombastically bland blond."

Then, as though he hasn't just insulted something Germany cares a great deal about, England offers the mints packet.

"You're blond, too," Germany points out – politely raising a hand to decline the candy.

"Yes, but I'm not _bland_."

He should've seen that coming.

Germany attempts to formulate an argument, but he's blocked by their train pulling abruptly into the station, nestled snugly between Strasbourg's platforms like all those Kaiserreich wagons before it. _Look at me_, its shiny exterior seems to coo in France's voice, _a sleek Gallic train in a regal German station_.

As England rises from the bench to greet it, Germany follows. He leaves his Strasbourg ghosts behind.

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><p>Second-class consists of booths around tables, though there are lone seats pressed up against its windows. Whenever the European procession travels together en masse, England usually makes a point of sitting alone, so Germany is slightly surprised when he takes to scouting out a booth at the back of the train.<p>

England slips into one side, and Germany deigns to take the other. The space beside England becomes occupied by his suitcase, because he apparently doesn't trust the storage compartment above their heads.

Or perhaps _he_ doesn't want to be any closer to Germany than necessary, which is equally likely.

"Damned shame one can't smoke on these things," England says, rhythmically striking his knee with his mint packet. "How long are we going to be stuck here?"

Of course England doesn't make a habit of memorising continental timetables – but they have miles and miles to cover. The distance from home is something Germany feels tucked between bone and muscle, the dull ache that always tugs him back when he's abroad.

"Three hours," he says, without having to think, "or thereabouts."

"_Marvellous_," England mutters. "That's a long time to try making small talk with Nietzsche."

"Surely that's better than travelling eight hours to Berlin."

"You say that, but at least then it would be far more acceptable to take a nap."

Germany hand waves the notion. "You're welcome to rest now. I never suggested I would take offence."

"Now?" England repeats, the faintest gleam occupying his gaze – or perhaps it's simply a catch of light, as the scenery rolling past outside shifts from stone walls into open greenery. "And miss your dazzling insights into contemporary world issues? I wouldn't dream of it."

It would be truly pitiful if Germany couldn't spot England's _unamusing_ brand of sarcasm yet, over a century since their first meeting. His arms defensively come to fold across his chest as he adopts the appropriate scowl, replying curtly, "I highly doubt you wish to hear _any_ of my views."

"I doubt you _have_ views." England leans back in his seat, eyeing Germany still, but it's unreadable: his mouth is slack, head tipped in the floor's favour. "None you'd share with me, anyway. Though I say, this will be a dreadfully tedious trip if we're both on our best behaviour."

"I'll count this trip as a success if you insult the minimum amount of people possible."

"Pardon!" England scowls with indignation, and as far as Germany can tell, it's laughably genuine. "I'm the poster child for civility. I was nothing but restrained this morning – I said only about half of what I really wanted to, out of respect for my dear fellow representatives such as yourself."

Germany roughly recalls England addressing Spain as a _rock-grabbing paella ponce_ midway through the conference, so he can't begin to imagine what an undisciplined exchange might've looked like.

Before he can say as much, however, England's suitcase begins _moving_ by itself, and Germany is subsequently startled into silence. Outwardly, he only cocks a brow somewhat, wondering if the cause is Anglo-sorcery or simply a dodgy section of track.

It's neither, because as the suitcase topples from its seat – finally prompting its owner into noticing the sentience it's gained – Germany leans fractionally towards the aisle, glancing down at where the item of luggage now rests. There is a little dark-haired girl standing there, and her arms, predictably enough, are wrapped around the suitcase's breadth, though they can't quite reach enough for her fingers to meet.

"This should go on the _shelf_," she insists, once she sees Germany's noticed her. She speaks with a youthful grasp of French, so Germany can't imagine she's particularly pleased at sitting still on a three-hour train: playing luggage inspector is undoubtedly more fun.

Still, Germany counts it as a blessing that England responds first, because he wouldn't really know what to say – he completely agrees with the child. He just didn't see any point to arguing with England about train procedure.

"Aren't you a conceited little thing," is what England utters – so perhaps it's not that much of a blessing after all. But England is safe in the knowledge the child won't understand such a word, let alone in English, and his language switches to that which the girl _will_ understand as he goes on, "Indeed, indeed. But it's an important case containing important things, and I wouldn't want to let it leave my side. Adults being silly, you see – though it's very good of you to let me know, my dear."

The little girl frowns at first – Germany wonders, vaguely, if all French citizens are born instinctively distrustful of _Angleterre's_ embodiment – but she perks up at being called England's _dear_. Germany stares at him, unimpressed; he supposes it's only natural that an Empire who spent centuries raising children would retain a fatherly edge.

"Then I won't tell anyone," the girl declares, a finger resting over her lips.

"Good show, my dear," England replies – and, predictably enough, he extends his arm into the aisle to offer her a mint.

It's a decision he assumedly regrets, because instead of taking one, the grinning girl seizes the whole packet before England can react. She doesn't stop there, deciding to hop off with it as her prize for being _such_ a good luggage inspector: Germany isn't fond of smiling often, but he cracks the slightest one now.

Not that he can let England see, of course. He reaches for the fallen suitcase to disguise his mirth, privy to England muttering, "Have her parents not warned her about taking sweets from strangers?"

"I think the questionable element here is you _offering_ some."

"One! Not some! Certainly not all of them."

Germany lifts up from his seat just enough to haul the suitcase over the table, restoring it to its former position. England fondly pats it for good measure... and Germany's curious, now.

"What are you carrying that's so important?"

"Documents, mostly." A dull response, but credible, with how quick England is to speak. "Nothing she'd be able to make heads nor tail of – but it's for my own peace of mind that I don't lose sight of it." After a pause, he wistfully adds, "There's some embarrassing underwear, too."

Germany finds _all_ underwear embarrassing, so his answer comes in the form of a sage, understanding nod. He falls silent, but only because the view beyond the window has caught his eye: they are about to cross the green Rhine, a watery border between his lands and the lands beyond. This railroad covers an old bridge, crushed more times than he can remember – to keep him out, or to fend others off.

His homesick ache ebbs away, but there's still all those miles to go before he can put his brother in a headlock.

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><p>England seems to have taken up a by-foot initiative: upon arrival at Frankfurt central station, he is adamant that the hour-long walk to Germany's newest house will be absolutely fine and dandy, no need to call a cab. But Germany doesn't think his current business attire is appropriate for walking, and he also doesn't think he can put up with <em>another<em> sixty minutes of hearing England's football predictions for the season ahead.

He ends up with ten minutes of it and a full taxi fare, but it's a small price to pay.

Prussia is standing in the doorway to greet them, decked out in jeans and a black t-shirt now streaked with paint in all sorts of colours. His mouth boasts its usual smirk, arms folded, one hand brandishing a varnish brush.

"Great to see ya, Freddie Frinton. Here to get some proper beer for once?"

"A pleasure to see you too," England replies, and he pushes past Prussia into the hallway without another word.

Prussia, naturally, assumes Germany is to blame for such discourtesy, because he says with conviction, "Hey, hey! Did my little brother put your undies in a twist?"

"Our journey was pleasant," Germany swiftly replies. He, too, decides to simply push his way indoors.

England rests his luggage against the staircase's bottom step while Prussia shuts the front door behind them, locking it via latch. This is a tranquil neighbourhood, a street of antiquated townhouses inhabited mostly by families, but amidst _their_ kind it's better to be safe than sorry.

"Dare I," Germany begins, hovering hesitantly near the corridor that leads to the kitchen, "see what chaos you've caused in there?"

"Well, _yeah_." Prussia lifts his arms, blithely folding them behind his head. "You'll be amazed by what I've done with the place. I wouldn't have spent the whole day working like a little Swiss bee if I wasn't doing good, right?"

"Wrong," England helpfully interjects – though Germany is inclined to agree with him.

"Perhaps we should hire _professionals_," he begins, with as much tact as possible, but Prussia vigorously shakes his head.

"Why bother? I'm telling you, I can do it myself. For free. You should be happy 'cause I'm saving _money_ here!"

"At the expense of everything else."

"Lies _and_ slander, brother mine. You haven't seen it yet! How can you judge my awesome kitchen when you're not even _in_ my awesome kitchen?"

Germany glances to England – for support, perhaps, or simply confirmation. All he receives is a vision of hubris, the Briton leaning back against the banister with a smugly amused smile... and what makes it worse is that Germany knows exactly what he's thinking. This is the same fraternal dream-team that he declared global war on _twice_. It must baffle him, sometimes, that they ever got that far.

"I've got coffee," Prussia suggests. "You'll join me for that – won't ya, eyebrows?"

"If you're really this desperate to show off your disaster of a kitchen, I'll gladly accept a warm beverage." England pushes away from the staircase, casting Germany the briefest glance. "Can we expect your company, sir?"

The feeling of dread coiling in Germany's stomach is still present and expanding, but he decides, before he can change his mind, that it might be best to assess the damage. So he nods, and Prussia snickers, and the silver-haired nuisance proudly marches his guests into a room that has an overwhelming smell of paint radiating from its walls.

Most likely because they were indeed painted, Germany notes with some surprise. It had been a garish green before, but now it's a light cream, to offset the metallic grey of the furnishings and cabinet units Germany set up last week.

As England takes a seat at the industrial table, a long thing situated in the centre of the room, Germany gravitates towards the walls and examines their surfaces _intently_. No specks of primer on the microwave, no overspill onto the doorframe. It's possible that extended boredom is turning Prussia competent.

Banging sounds from the other end of the kitchen counter reveal the process isn't quite complete, because the coffee machine is refusing to work and Prussia's solution is hitting it. It's _Germany's_ coffee machine, so he naturally feels the need to march over and defend it... and England watches, quietly entertained, from his convenient perch behind them.

Coffee emerges several arguments later, which in the grand scheme of things only takes about five minutes – but it's still enough to make Germany covertly cringe. He's never been comfortable with appearing inefficient, and around _England_ it's far more embarrassing.

"You two staying here tonight, or what?" Prussia asks, as he takes a seat of his own. He sips from his mug while his eyes flitter between his associates, alert with a _nosy_ blend of curiosity.

Germany looks at England, though England only looks back – so he adjusts his tie before stating, "Yes. I believe so."

"I want to knock Belgium _and_ Luxembourg off our list," England adds. "If we're going to cover that in one day, our best chance involves simply leaving early tomorrow."

Prussia grins. He sets his mug down, plonking his chin on one hand. "That's not much of a holiday. Take your time, see the sights! I gotta say, I was kinda surprised to hear you wanted to take my _brother_ with you, but I guess someone put you up to it."

"You could say that," England replies, warming his hands on his drink. "It's not what I'd call a holiday, though."

"Oh?"

"It's... a prolonged business trip. Troglodytes get to tell me why I shouldn't leave the EU, your brother sits there like a nodding dog, everybody has a jolly good time."

Prussia's eyes widen. He glances towards Germany with sheer outraged etched across his features, and when he receives only a nod of confirmation for his troubles, he slaps his hands down flat against the table. "They didn't say shit about it to me!"

England's nose crinkles. "That's because you're not the _official_ representative."

"I still wanna come!"

"I'm afraid you can't," says Germany. "I feel this is something I can accomplish without your... help."

"But I'm better looking." Prussia puffs out his chest as well as his cheeks, insisting, "Imagine how awesome your holiday selfies would look with _me_ in them."

"It's _not_ a holiday," England replies, despite the crooked smile threatening to stretch his lips. "I thought you were working diligently on refurbishment?"

"Kinda," Prussia says. He takes a moment to examine the room, and he nods slowly to himself while he goes on, "The kitchen _is_ pretty great."

Germany decides to keep his mouth shut on that one: compliments are not his speciality. Instead, he's quick to change the subject. "I apologise for the change to our plans, but we should be out of your hair before you wake up."

"Hm?" Prussia, pausing momentarily in his narcissism, turns back to listen. "You booked your train already?"

"Not exactly," Germany says, "but I know my Brussels timetable. We should be ready for the six-thirty line... if we turn in for the night after _Good Times_."

England is glaring, which is particularly impressive because he's steadily slurping coffee. When England says early, after all, he doesn't really mean early – but early is what he's getting. _Early_ is Germany's speciality.

And England seems to know it. He doesn't lower his mug to complain, only to ask, "Good times?"

"The best show _ever_," Prussia replies, his tone one of excited gushing. "But we've got plenty of time before that, and as always I've gotta ask – what are your Manchester United predictions?"

It's Germany's turn to glare, this time towards Prussia, but his brother isn't even looking his way. So Germany thinks, as England launches into a speech about ten-men formations, that he's seen many circles of hell during his time upon this ungodly earth – but _this_ is by far the one most annoying.

* * *

><p><strong>-tbc-<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>

+ History: When France opposed German unification, Prussia annexed the area containing Strasbourg (Alsace-Lorraine) and made it Germany's territory in 1871. 'Rock-grabbing paella ponce': the UK governs the Rock of Gibraltar in the Mediterranean, which Spain claims should be its territory.

+ Culture: Friedrich Nietzsche was a German nihilist philosopher. Not known for being fun at parties. Freddie Frinton was the male star of 'Dinner for One', a 1963 British comedy sketch that still airs every New Year's Eve on German television as a tradition. 'Good Times, Bad Times': a daily German soap opera, broadcast before 9pm.


End file.
